


Spiralling Frost

by torrentialTriages



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Gen, everyone else is more of a minor appearance, free washington from this life of suffering, mostly wash and allison-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:07:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4212534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torrentialTriages/pseuds/torrentialTriages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cliff is chilly, and the wind knifes its way into your armor's crevices. What it does not cut into, the snow clings to, caking your armor in freezing white flakes.</p>
<p>You are most likely going to die here, Washington.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spiralling Frost

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Toadflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toadflame/pseuds/Toadflame) in the [RvB_Fic_War](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/RvB_Fic_War) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> While gathering Intel on the other team, one of your teammates has gone missing. They were carrying vital information that could be the very thing to end the war!
> 
> But it's too dangerous to go get them. Your mission is to figure out how to tell Command they're gone and never coming back. 
> 
> **Prompt:** Someone had gone missing and must be rescued by any means necessary.
> 
> did i title this after a nanowrimo story i did. yes oh god why

The cliff is chilly, and the wind knifes its way into your armor's crevices. What it does not cut into, the snow clings to, caking your armor in freezing white flakes.  
  
You are most likely going to die here, Washington. You've accepted that. You've accepted that fact many times over.  
  
It's been... ages. Assuming this planet's orbit follows the exact speed and trajectory of the Earth, it's been thirteen hours. Assuming it's a planet with longer hours or if your perception of time is off, you could have been here for two hours or twenty, you don't know. Your fingertips are stiff, numb, nothing more than marbled appendages stuffed inside gloves and armor plates. It's getting to you, Wash. It hurts to move, your fists fuzzy hams and your knees creaking as you force yourself to trudge onwards. You had gone to scout for landmarks, but upon confirming that this was not Sidewinder or any other frozen planet you knew, and also that it was _really fuckin' cold_ , you'd decided to return to the wreckage of the small spacecraft that you'd taken in an effort to send for some extraplanetary aid.  
  
That was ages ago.  
  
You keep walking, Wash, but every creak of your freezing joints feels like it's eternities apart, every protesting squeak of their hinges spaced out by lifetimes, yours, others', memories of others.  
  
Epsilon's memories?  
  
_Allison,_ your memory's memories breathe, the pull of the name subdued in your exhaustion. You can kind of see her, in olive greens and greys and standing on the browned slats of the deck, gazing seriously into your eyes. Yours? Church's? Director Church? Epsilon's? You wish you could ask, but no, Epsilon's with Carolina and it's better to let sleeping dogs lie.  
  
_I have to go._ Her voice echoes, muted, in your head. Her lips pressed together, skin whitening under the pressure.  
  
"I know," you mouth, "But- could you- can you stay? A bit?" _I need someone to talk to so I don't fall asleep_ somehow fails to be said.  
  
_I have to go,_ she repeats. Then, more wryly than you or Epsilon or the Director ever remembered, with a softened expression and an amused chuckle, _Don't make me hurt you, David._  
  
"You can't," you breathe. You grunt as you stumble, fall to your knees, get up, keep going. The snow comes down, and down, and down. "You're just in my head."  
  
_Things in your head can hurt you too._  
  
"I won't let you."  
  
She shakes her head. _I don't want to hurt you._ Gentle, fond, amused. A little annoyed.  
  
"Thanks." You walk some more. It's hard to see in this weather, yes, but you can't stand there and freeze to death. People... your team and friends still need you. "But... No. Never mind. Can you clear out for a while?" _I need to focus._  
  
_Yeah, okay. But don't say goodbye,_ responds Allison flatly, growing dispassionate, fatigues blurring in your vision. In your head, she walks back to the door to her left. _Remember, I hate goodbyes._  
  
"I know," you huff. She retreats from your consciousness.  
  
You trudge on.  
  
\--  
  
"This was a shitty idea! The shittiest idea!"  
  
"Of all time," Caboose supplies helpfully.  
  
"We should never have sent Wash!" Tucker's voice climbs the register in panic, and Grif snorts tersely.  
  
"What, did you want to go instead of him? Real brave sacrifice, Tucker, you can't fly worth shit."  
  
"Well, I-"  
  
"Quiet, you two," snaps Carolina, leaning forward to peer out the windshield. "We're landing in a few." Grif and Simmons look over her shoulders out the front. Caboose takes an interest in the snowflakes that pile up on the side windows. "And Tucker?" She shoots him a glance, expression softer than the driven grimace she'd sported all flight. Tucker doesn't look up. "Calm down. He'll be okay."  
  
Tucker only bows his head and clenches his fists on his thighs.  
  
"Ahh," Caboose says serenely, in the way that he does. No one turns to look at him. "Agent Washington will be fine. We will find him."  
  
"Thanks, Caboose." Tucker dips his head in acknowledgement.  
  
"And then we will be best friends again! Except no one can be best friends like me and Church are! Isn't that right, Church?"  
  
Epsilon flashes into projection. "Fuck off, Caboose." Flashes back into oblivion, or rather, the depths of Carolina's armor.  
  
Caboose sighs dreamily. "Best friends."  
  
\--  
  
How long has it been, Washington? You can't find your crash site. You're not sure you've gotten back to it yet, or if you've completely passed it by. Rationally, you should be worried, but right now you're too bone-weary to care. Every piece of armor you wear is weighing you down, making each step smaller and heavier. You're growing too numb to care, to be frank.  
  
You're too numb to move.  
  
You stand there, with snow obscuring the colors of your armor, helmet tipped up to the blurry sky, mottled shades of grey, gray, and white. The snow dances as it pelts around you, some of it floating upwards delicately. You can't appreciate it. You want to rest. Your body is heavy, your body is warm, your fingers tingling as you stretch then squeeze them. Your body is making you want to fall over and go to sleep, but you cannot. You need to stay awake.  
  
Where is Allison? A little bit of companionship would be nice, here... Even if she's just skewed memories of memories of a memory, unreliably given life by your needy mind. You're alone, so alone in this vast stormy landscape. You could use the company.  
  
You never thought you'd die alone. And here you are, so drained of energy that breathing takes effort, filtered air filled with the bluster of the snowstorm slipping fuzzily over your ragged lungs.  
  
You hope your team's okay. And, even though you know it's absurd, you hope Allison's okay too. Wherever she is. If she still exists in your head.  
  
_I never got to say goodbye, or even 'I'll see you again',_ you think numbly. The thought hooks itself into your ribcage and tugs you forwards, giving you the energy to lurch forward into motion. Your team, your friends still need you.  
  
You'd hate to say goodbye to them for good, after all.


End file.
